


Nowhere Man

by Brenda



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Erik has Issues, M/M, recruitment mission, this is not news
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1288798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He wants to crawl inside Charles' skin, crawl inside that terrifying mind, and stay until he's the only thing that Charles knows, the only thing Charles feels.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nowhere Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zarah5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarah5/gifts), [kaydeefalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/gifts).



> Slightly AU in that I have Erik & Charles on their recruiting mission in 1961, not 1962. I promise, there's a reason. And the poem Charles recites is "Plutonian Ode" by Allen Ginsberg.

_Hamburg, Germany – March 1961_

The Top Ten Club doesn't look like much from the outside, but Erik can hear the clanging jangle of a guitar over the heavy pounding of drums and the solid thump of a bass backbeat when he and Charles step out of the cab. The energy is palpable, even from the sidewalk, and Erik's body thrums in appreciation and recognition. New music for a new age, no longer tethered to the past, but blazing ahead, open and defiant, towards the future. There's power here, and rebellion, and the sheer _metal_ sound of it all echoes the wild beat of his heart.

Yes, he can definitely appreciate this sound. Right now, he thinks he could lead the fucking rebellion himself.

After the last few weeks in Charles' ( _infuriating, fascinating_ ) company, nerves and patience stretched paper-thin, he's not sure there's a person in the world who would blame him if he did.

He hadn't wanted to come on this particular recruiting mission. He holds no real love or loyalty for his homeland (for obvious reasons, he thinks) and he'd wanted to concentrate his time on finding Shaw's trail, which had gone disconcertingly cold over the last couple of months. But Charles, all charm and persuasion, had insisted –

_"You know German, Charles. You don't need me."_  
 _"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, my friend. I do need you. I may know the language, but I don't know the people..."_  
 _And somehow, Erik had found himself saying yes. Again._

– so here they are, chasing a flimsy lead on some mutant with superhuman strength to a rather seedy part of Reeperbahn, outside an even seedier-looking club (even if the music pouring out of it is quite extraordinary). Erik's been in enough places like this to know that the patrons will be notoriously tight-lipped and quick to fight.

He casts a glance to Charles, who's looking up and down the street in fascination, like the whores and sailors stumbling around them are exotic creatures, and he wants to study them further. Ever the scientist, Erik thinks. Even in his blue jeans, work boots and navy pea coat, Charles looks decidedly out of place. There's just something about him that screams upper class. Erik thinks it's probably his skin, far too soft and fair, speaking of a life led free of menial labor – or perhaps his eyes, which are still capable of looking at the world in wonder instead of suspicion and scorn.

(Erik, however, knows better than to call Charles innocent. Only a fool would think that anyone who can see into the deepest fears and dark desires of men could ever be such a thing. And Erik is far from a fool.)

"We should go inside and have a look around," Charles suggests, nodding at the door. "Even if Peter's not in there, someone might be able to tell us where to find him."

" _You_ want to go in?" Erik can't quite hide his surprise. Every time he thinks he's figured out the enigma of Charles Xavier, he's thrown off his game, an occurrence that happens with alarming frequency. He's used to being able to read a man and his intentions in seconds. The fact that Charles is still a mystery is... Well, he's still not sure. But, if he's honest with himself, it's probably why he's stuck around all these weeks.

"Why wouldn't I?" Charles' eyes seem even brighter in the sickly yellow lamp light. He shivers slightly and pulls his scarf more closely around his neck for better protection from the bitterly cold wind. "This is hardly the first time we've solicited recruits in squalid surroundings. I'm hardly going to get squeamish now."

"Yes, but..." Erik gestures helplessly at the club. Nothing Charles says _sounds_ right these days. Erik feels off-balance, like the poles holding him steady have reversed. It's not a feeling he particularly cares for, and part of him resents how easily Charles elicits this response. Part of him resents Charles for a great many things. "You don't seem the type for rock  & roll," he finally says, settling for something simple, something safe.

"On the contrary, I _love_ rock  & roll," Charles replies. He looks amused now, like Erik's assumptions have tickled him in some way. Like he's filing away Erik's reactions for further study, like Erik's reactions are a fascinating experiment.

The only thing keeping Erik from hitting him is that Charles would see it coming.

"It's very sexual...primal, one could say," Charles continues, seemingly – deceptively – oblivious to Erik's ire. "All of that naked and raw belligerence put into musical form - it's very exciting. And some of the songs are actually quite poetic."

Irritation fades and something deep inside Erik tightens at Charles' open, unfettered ebullience. He has no defenses, it seems, against this man's enthusiasm for life, and the thought disturbs him more than he'd ever admit out loud. (Not that he needs to.) He likes feeling defenseless even less than he likes feeling off-balance.

"You get the most delightful crinkles around your nose and mouth when you're enthusing about something, did you know that?" he asks, just to see if he _can_ surprise Charles into an honest reaction. It won't put them on equal footing – and he's smart enough to know it – but it would be a start.

He's rewarded when a blush blossoms across Charles' cheeks. (Or perhaps it's just the cold, Erik reminds himself. Don't assume.) "Do I?" he asks, as if he's trying for off-handed and not quite succeeding. "Is that a good or bad thing?"

"I'm still deciding," Erik replies truthfully. He's not certain if he'll ever know the answer. He's not certain he wants to.

"Let me know what I can do to persuade you in my favor," Charles replies, equilibrium restored, and grins, tucking his tongue between his teeth in a manner that would be flirtatious on anyone else, but for Charles, it's as natural as breathing. Erik's seen enough of that smile to know exactly how natural it is. "Besides, one would think you would, at least, positively adore rock & roll. All of that aggression does seem rather up your alley."

"Perhaps I prefer channeling my aggression in other artistic arenas," Erik says, annoyed in spite of himself at how easily Charles can read him, even without Charles using his gift. (Charles had promised him the first night they'd met that he would never read Erik's mind again, and Erik's never had a reason to doubt that promise. Charles may be many things – manipulative and mischievous and arrogant beyond belief – but he's not a liar.)

"So it's poetry, then? I bet you're a Ginsberg fan, am I right?" Charles asks with another impish smile, then continues without waiting for an answer: " _I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with your presence, I roar your lion roar with mortal mouth...how long before your radiance speeds blight and death to sentient beings? Enter my body or not, I carol my spirit inside you..._ "

The shape of Charles' mouth as he recites the words is almost obscene, a temptation that would entice far stronger men than Erik. Lately, Charles has taken to pushing Erik's boundaries and his limited patience. Almost like he's searching for _something_.

"Careful," Erik manages, thankful his voice is – more or less – steady. "One could mistake that for an invitation."

"Who says it's not?" Charles replies, giving him a frankly challenging look before opening the door to the club and nonchalantly stepping inside, like he hadn't just laid down a rather large gauntlet and dared Erik to pick it up.

Erik curls his nails into his palms until he can feel the skin breaking and blood welling to the surface, forces his heart to slow, his lungs to expand. The lampposts around him bend with an ominous groan – it takes him a moment to realize he's the one doing it. He feels feral, wild, unchained from limitations in the most basic of ways, reduced to unfiltered emotion. Power surges through him, the iron in his blood heating and twisting him into something unrecognizable. Something inhuman.

_Control yourself. You're better than this._

The voice inside him – he refuses to name it – is low, measured, soothes his shattered nerves. It allows him to take a deep breath and center himself. He _is_ better than this. He will _be_ better than this. He fishes the Nazi coin out of his pocket, just to feel the familiar weight in his hand. He can't afford to lose sight of who he really is, not even for a moment.

He _won't_ be a pawn in whatever game Charles is playing.

He's lost Charles completely by the time he steps inside – the club is darkly lit, more than half-full, with most of the crowd surrounding the small stage at the other end of the room. The band is playing a raucous version of "Roll Over Beethoven" with a lot of enthusiasm and a surprising amount of skill. They must be the same band he'd heard outside.

The lead singer – a scrawny kid with messy hair and an impressively scratchy voice – is sporting a sneer that could rival Elvis and wearing black-framed glasses that look like they've come straight from Buddy Holly's closet, and is playing his guitar like he's channeling all of his resentment into the chords. The two other guitarists are considerably more clean-cut (and even younger, if possible), but play with the confidence of much more seasoned artists. The bass player is wearing Ray Bans and black jeans that look painted on him, and is keeping a simple counter-beat with the drummer, a good-looking lad who's staring blankly at the crowd like he'd rather be anywhere else.

They're electric, dynamic in a way that Erik's never seen. He's not sure anyone's seen anything like this.

"Amazing, aren't they?" Charles shouts in his ear, and when he half-turns, he discovers that Charles is practically plastered against him. Charles has taken off his coat and has already unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them to his forearms. Erik can't stop staring at the light sprinkling of hairs, the clench of muscle under deceptively soft skin. He wonders if Charles had done it on purpose.

"Amazing," he repeats, feeling a little like he's been placed under a spell, like he's been hypnotized, his thoughts no longer his own. He glances down, but Charles' hands are by his sides.

Charles is a mystery unlike anything he's ever known, but right now, with the music urging him on, pounding against his defenses, Erik's not certain he'd mind drowning in the attempt to figure him out.

"I don't sense our man, however." If possible, Charles presses even closer to him, the heat of him burning through Erik's own clothing, under his skin. The second hand of his watch vibrates for a moment before he can bring himself under control.

"Any ideas?" he asks, careful not to move. His own skin feels stretched too tight across his body.

"Apparently, he knows the band," Charles replies, his breath raising the hairs on the back of Erik's neck. "If you like, we can wait for a break, ask them?"

"Alright." He forces himself to step away, takes a cleansing lungful of smoky, fetid air. "I need a drink."

"I'll join you."

Erik doesn't trust himself to respond. He still doesn't know if Charles is doing this on purpose, or if this easy flirtation is just another weapon in his considerable arsenal, but if he's trying to keep Erik on his toes or dig under his nerves, it's working. Perhaps too well.

Charles gives Erik a friendly slap on the back that lingers a shade too long. _Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be here soon,_ he says, mentally. (He'd promised not to read Erik's mind, true, but Erik had never asked him not to have any sort of mental contact with him. In fact, he'd immediately seen the value of silent – and private – conversation when in a crowded room. It's a useful tool, another weapon at his disposal.)

 _I'm not worried about Peter_ , Erik replies silently, then shrugs away from Charles' touch. Mercifully, Charles gives him his space.

He spends the rest of the set nursing a beer and trying very hard to ignore Charles beside him, bopping his head to the beat and looking like there's nowhere in the world he'd rather be.

***

It's an hour before the band takes a well-earned break and scatters to various corners of the room. The bassist heads straight for the bar, stopping right next to Charles. Erik wonders if it's a coincidence or a carefully placed nudge on Charles' part.

"That was extraordinary, truly. You all were something else up there," Charles says, after the bassist has ordered himself a drink.

"Thanks." He pockets his Ray Bans. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his eyes have this wild focus to them that means he's probably high on something (if Erik was in a guessing mood, he'd say uppers of some sort), but his answering smile is friendly enough. "You should tell John, though, not me – he's the true musician. I just stand up there and keep the beat."

"That's half the battle, though, isn't it?" Charles grins, easy and friendly – just another harmless tourist instead of one of the most dangerously destructive men Erik's ever known – then puts out his hand. "Sorry, where are my manners? I'm Charles Xavier, lovely to meet you. And this is my associate, Erik Lehnsherr."

"Stu Sutcliffe." He shakes Charles hand, then Erik's, before taking out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He offers the pack to them, then taps one out himself when they both decline. "You two get lost on your way to Blankenese or something?" Stu asks. "No offense, but you're not our usual sort."

"Actually, we were looking for someone that works here," Charles replies. "We were told you know him. Peter Nicholas?"

"Yeah, Big Pete," Stu says, and takes a deep drag. "I think he's working down at the Star Club tonight, maybe, or driving Weissleder around. He'll probably be by later, if you wanted to stick around. He likes to jump onstage and sing a tune with Paul sometimes."

"Thank you," Erik says, just as Charles is bumped from behind by the lead singer, who looks even more disheveled than Stu. His black t-shirt is soaked with sweat and beads of it still line his forehead and cheeks.

"Who're these cats?" he asks Stu, with an exaggerated sneer for Charles and Erik.

"John, this is Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr," Stu says, waving his hand in a negligent introduction. "Charles, Erik, this _incredibly_ charming bloke is John Lennon."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Charles says politely. Erik marvels at his restraint. His own fingers itch to twist this John's belt buckle into an unrecognizable shape.

"Bless me soul, vicar, we've got ourselves a _proper_ Englishman in the house," John replies, pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger. "What's a posh gent like you doing in a dive like this? Got yerself a taste for transvestites and dodgy musicians?"

"They're looking for Big Pete," Stu tells him, then tosses him the pack.

John frowns thoughtfully. "You looking to use him as protection while you're slumming with the rest of us?"

"Not quite." The corners of Charles' mouth twitch, as if he's amused, and it's nice to see that Charles gets that smile when talking with other people, as well. "And I'm hardly posh."

"I've got ears, mate, I know what posh sounds like," John counters, and lights his own cigarette. "Bet yer an Oxford man, aren't you? You and yer fancy accent and fancy schooling." Once again, Erik is awed by Charles' self-discipline. If Erik had Charles' gift, he'd have already reduced John's bluster to confusion with barely a thought.

Charles shrugs. He looks vaguely embarrassed, the way he always does when someone brings up his wealth or upbringing. It's one of the few things that can crack his unflappable composure. "I'm a professor at Oxford, yes, but that doesn't mean anything."

"Come down from your lofty tower to educate us scouses, is that it?" John's eyes light up. "Go on, then, give us a bit of the old razzle dazzle."

"He was just reciting Ginsberg outside," Erik says, with what he's sure is an evil grin. Discomfiting Charles happens so rarely that he's perversely glad of the chance to do so. He suddenly feels like he's found a kindred spirit in this John fellow and his obvious disdain and even more obvious anger at the world and everything in it. Besides, anyone that can make Charles feel self-conscious and unsure can't be all bad.

"Really, Erik," Charles admonishes, although Erik can tell there's no true ire behind it. _I recited those lines for you alone to hear._

Erik's breath hitches in his throat at the heated look in Charles' eyes. He wonders what it would take to make Charles truly lose some of that control. He thinks he might sell what little is left of his soul to find out – just to see if it's as terrifyingly beautiful as he's imagined.

 _Yes, but I never claimed to play fair_ , he finally replies, and lifts his glass in a semi-mocking toast. It's something they would both do well to remember.

Stu jerks his head in John's direction. "Johnny here's a big fan of the Beat poets."

Charles smiles, a genuine one that touches his eyes. "Are you?"

"Ginsberg, yeah, he's a cool cat," John nods, through a haze of smoke. "Wouldn't've thought someone like _you_ would've heard of him. You look like you'd be all Keats and Milton and Shakespeare all the time." It's said with a derisive scoff.

"Poetry is poetry," Charles replies, with his own shrug. "Why should it mean less when it's in free verse than in iambic pentameter or couplets?"

"We're going to get on alright, Oxford," John declares, then bangs on the bar. "Tony, a round for me scholarly friend here. What's your take on Kerouac and Burroughs?"

"Oh, well, in terms of what they're doing with form, it's brilliant, isn't it?" Charles says, leaning beside John, clearly warming to his subject. He looks almost translucent, other-worldly. Like a woodland sprite from one of the bedtime stories Erik's mother used to tell, an ancient creature of legend and magic. "Channeling all of that displacement and anger and making it sing on the page in a completely non-linear format – it's almost like they're bleeding raw emotion into print. It's a little like rock & roll, isn't it?"

"Too right, brother," John says, and claps Charles on the back. " _Every now and then a clear harmonic cry gave new suggestions of a tune that would someday be the only tune in the world and would raise men's souls to joy._ That's going to be us, mate. You watch, we'll be bigger than Elvis one day and everyone'll be singing our tunes like they're the only ones in the world."

"A tall order, my friend," Charles replies, but taps his beer glass to John's. "But I wish you the best of luck."

John chuckles, a low sound that still somehow fills the room. "I appreciate it, but I don't believe in luck. 'Sides," he adds, with a wink, "we've got one of your own heavy thinkers on our side, haven't we?"

"Which...ah, you mean Plato," Charles nods, as if the answer's just occurred to him and he hadn't plucked it from John's mind like a ripe apple. " _Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything_ , yes?"

John taps a finger to the side of his nose. "Got it in one. See, that fancy education of yours is good for something."

"And, on that note, I'm declaring this a truce," Stu declares, then turns to Erik. "Come on, let's leave the intellectuals to their heavy thinking."

Erik wonders if this is really Stu's idea or if Charles had simply wanted some time alone to speak with John about poetry and rock & roll. John's already given Charles better conversation in five minutes than Erik has all week – by his own choice, he reminds himself. He shouldn't blame Charles for looking elsewhere for intellectual stimulation.

"Erik, you coming?" Stu asks, nudging his shoulder companionably.

"Yeah. Alright." It's not like Charles will notice if he's not around, even if Stu's invitation had been of his own free will. Erik looks at Charles and John, how at ease they are with each other, how effortlessly Charles had won John over, and something heavy settles in his belly, like lead, only unmalleable to his will.

 _Alles wird gut,_ he tells himself – both memory and a promise. Everything is alright. He's better than this.

Erik takes his pint over to a table near the stage to where a regal blonde is holding court, wielding her cigarette like a rapier. She is, in a word, stunning – elegant and aloof, with perfect posture and a direct gaze that seems to see through everything and everyone.

"Astrid, I'd like you to meet my new friend, Erik. Erik, this is my girl, Astrid." The way he says her name is reverential, like he still can't believe his good fortune in getting a woman like her. Erik can hardly fault him for the thought. If Charles is a mischievous sprite, then she is a muse straight from Greek myth.

"A pleasure," Astrid says, with a small nod.

Erik takes her hand and places a light kiss to her knuckles. He might not have Charles' obvious appeal, but he can be just as charming if the occasion calls for it. "Die Freude ist ganz meinerseits, vor allem, da Ihre Schönheit meinen sonst eher trüben Tag aufhellt."

"A fellow German," she replies in English, and smiles at the effusive compliment, warmth lighting her face. "Danke für das Kompliment. Und ein Freund von Stu ist immer willkommen. Bitte, setzen Sie sich doch."

Stu looks between both of them. His hand rests comfortably on top of Astrid's. "I have no idea what you two're saying, so I'm hoping it's complimentary."

Astrid pats Stu's hand. "I was just inviting him to join us."

Erik takes the chair across from them. They make a striking couple. He holds up his glass, forces a smile he doesn't really feel. "Here's to new friends."

"Cheers, mate," Stu says, and clinks his glass to Erik's.

"And what brings you and your friend here tonight?" Astrid asks.

"Just out to see the sights," Erik lies, easily. He doesn't want to talk about the mission or about Charles. Right now, he doesn't even want to _think_ about Charles. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Forever, it feels like," Stu confesses. "First time I met her, it was like I'd known her all my life."

"A..." she hesitates slightly "...friend took me to see the band play one night. I'd never heard anything like them. I was...what is the word? Blindsided, I think, yes?"

Reflexively, Erik glances at the bar – at Charles, who's still talking animatedly with John, and using his hands to make a point. His eyes are fever-bright with emotion, his body fairly vibrating with energy, so close to the surface that Erik can almost feel the hum of it beneath his fingertips. Charles is all animation, all passion for the world and everyone in it, and like no one Erik's ever met. Looking at him – all subtle command and fascinating grace – is like looking into the sun at high noon. Erik wonders if this is what the Neanderthals had felt when they'd discovered fire – if they'd felt that same sense of awe and fear, but had been unable to keep themselves from stepping closer to the flames.

He wonders if appeasing that curiosity would be worth the inevitable blisters.

"I know what you mean," he finally says, barely recognizing his own voice.

"Yes, I believe that you do," she replies, and when he looks back at her, her expression can only be called compassionate. He wonders why until he realizes probably looks as raw and open as he feels. It's an uncomfortable feeling. Bad enough that Charles can read him like a book. Charles is _different_. More than human – _better_. The idea that Astrid can read him as well is almost humiliating.

"So, you a professor like Charlie over there?" Stu asks, as he lights a new cigarette with the butt of the old one.

"No. I'd make a poor teacher." He's certain his smile falls somewhat flat, but no one remarks on it. _Control._ "I'm...in sales." It seems safe enough.

"Sounds pretty fucking boring, mate," Stu laughs.

He thinks of all of the tedious legwork he's done over the years, in tracking generals from country to country, city to city, so many nameless hotel rooms and faceless people, all pawns in the endless game to get him closer to Shaw. Over fifteen years of honing himself into the perfect weapon, all aimed at a single target. "It can be."

"Astrid here's a photographer. A bloody good one."

Her smile is small, but indulgent. "Stu is biased."

"Just an artist with an eye for talent."

"An artist as well as a musician, I'm impressed," Erik says, attempting to fill the space with harmless conversation. He can do this. For one night, he can pretend he's human like everyone else. Like _Charles_ always does, even though he shouldn't have to. "Quite the Renaissance man."

"Told you, I'm a shite musician." Stu wipes foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "But I could be a great artist."

"You already are," Astrid tells him, and something deep inside Erik aches at their easy affection.

"You got any family or a girl back home?" Stu asks Erik, after placing a kiss to Astrid's cheek.

"No family." His voice is sharper than he'd intended. "My mother...she died at Auschwitz."

"Oh." Astrid's face softens. "I'm so sorry, I didn't..."

He cuts her off. "There's no way you could."

The sympathy in her eyes grates like fingers scraping a chalkboard. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to rip the nails from the walls, to level the building and everyone in it. For a second, he wants to flex his power, to pin everyone to the floor by the loose change in their pockets and revel in their pleas for mercy. It would be so easy. Just a tiny flick of his wrist is all it would take to be feared like a god. He's all but suffocating under the weight of the temptation to do just that when he hears it again.

_You're better than this._

And again, he's not sure if it's his own voice he's hearing, but he grasps onto it all the same. Clings to the calm authority that reminds him of who he truly is. _Homo superior_ , he thinks. _Better._

Still, when he lifts his hand to his glass, he's not surprised to see that it's shaking.

"That's tough," Stu says, but there isn't any sympathy in his voice, just a matter-of-fact statement. Oddly, it helps to calm the worst of Erik's rage. He's not here to be _understood_ or dissected, especially by a mere girl like Astrid. He's here to help build an army strong enough to counter Shaw's.

"It explains much."

"I'm sorry?" Erik asks, giving Astrid a confused look.

"I once told John he was the angriest person I'd ever known. But I'm beginning to think I was mistaken."

"Anger's a useful tool, when properly applied." Anger had gotten him where he is today, so close to his goal. (But not close enough, he reminds himself. And not ever, if you keep traipsing around the world with Charles, allowing him to distract you, instead of fulfilling the only mission that matters.)

"But I do not think it will help you find what you are looking for," Astrid states, those cool eyes seeming to pierce right through him. For a brief second, Erik is reminded of Charles. "You have such rage, such sadness inside you. I wonder if you would know happiness if you saw it."

Erik's gaze flickers briefly to Charles, then back to Astrid. He wonders if Astrid has conversations like this often with total strangers. "We all get the happiness we deserve."

Her hand, small and delicate, but deceptively strong, covers his. "You deserve more," she says softly.

Did he, he wants to ask. Did he really? _If only you knew everything I've done... I'm not a good man. Not even close._

"Gorgeous, isn't she?" John asks, interrupting the moment and Erik's thoughts. He swings a chair around and straddles it. "I'd've had a go at her meself, but she only had eyes for our dear Stu here."

"I'm a lucky man," Stu agrees, with genial amiability. Erik gets the distinct impression that Stu spends much of his time quietly humoring John's eccentricities.

Charles takes the chair on Erik's other side, crowding him even though there's plenty of space around them, thigh pressing against his in one long line of heat and promise. His smile is full and wide, just this side of beautiful. Erik's breath snags somewhere in his lungs.

Then Charles sticks his hand across the table to Astrid. "Hullo, how do you do? I'm Charles."

"Astrid," she replies and removes her hand from Erik's to offer it to Charles. "Your friend and I were just discussing the merits of anger as a useful tool." It's said so smoothly that Erik almost believes that she'd brought up the conversation of her own volition.

Trust Charles to let his curiosity get the better of him.

Charles gives Erik a sidelong look. His smile turns private, a gift for Erik alone. "It does tend to be a favorite topic of his."

"I'm a big fan meself," John states. "It's like adrenaline, isn't it? Keeps your blood racing, your mind sharp. Angry men are the ones that change the world."

"Yes, but not always for the better." Charles says the words to John, but Erik knows they're directed at him. It's an old argument already, but Erik knows that this won't be the end of it. Charles is just as stubborn as he is, and just as convinced he's right. The problem with Charles is that he _could_ convince the world of the logic in his argument with no more than a well-placed thought.

(The real problem with Charles is that he _doesn't_.)

"Depends on your idea of better," John shrugs, pushing up his glasses. "The only constant in the world is change."

"Well-spoken, my friend." But Charles swings his gaze to Erik. His eyes are unnaturally blue in this light, seem to cut through every carefully erected defense like a sharp-edged knife. "But anger isn't always the solution. There are always other options."

"Not always," Erik replies softly, and wonders who he's trying to convince and why. Charles already knows Erik's stance on violence as means to an end – even if he hadn't crawled inside Erik's mind and had a good look around, it's not like Erik has ever kept it a secret.

"And, on that note, we really must be going." Charles stands, offers everyone at the table a welcoming smile. "Do you think you could you let Peter know that we'd like a word whenever he has time?" he asks, and gives the name of their hotel.

"Sure, yeah," John replies. "If yer still in town tomorrow, drop back by. We'll play you a song or two. Something brainy, with lots of words," he adds, with a grin.

Charles chuckles. "I appreciate that, thank you."

Erik stands and bends over Astrid's hand again. "Thank you for the conversation."

"Take care," she replies softly, and Erik can tell she means it.

Charles is silent as they head out. The wind has picked up again, and Charles pulls his coat closer to his body. He bumps into Erik every third step or so, even though there's enough room on the sidewalk for them to walk comfortably side by side.

"I liked them," Charles states, after a few blocks. "John, in particular, is quite a fascinating man."

"I could tell." Erik curses himself inwardly the second the words leave his mouth.

Charles arches an eyebrow in a perfect aristocratic gesture. "Is that jealousy I hear?"

Fuck this. Fuck Charles and the way he prods and pushes and his lack of respect for simple boundaries. Erik is _done_ playing the part of lab rat in Charles' latest experiment. "Don't you already know?" he spits out, ice-cold and deadly, just before he strikes.

He muscles Charles into a nearby alley and slams him against the brick wall, pinning him there with his body in one taut, furious line. The split second of shock on Charles' face is more than worth it. _What would it take to make you lose control?_ "What the _hell_ is it you're playing at?"

Shadows fall over Charles' face, making him seem ethereal, eerie. His smile is dark, arrogantly assured, meeting Erik's challenge with his own. "Who says I'm playing?"

Erik's lips are on his before he can stop himself, teeth and tongues clashing together in a brutal battle. There's nothing soft in this, nothing forgiving. He can taste blood when he bites Charles' lower lip, hard, then harder still. He digs his fingers into Charles' hips, and relishes the small, alarmed sound of pain that follows. He can practically _see_ the purpling bruises spreading like a cancer over too pale skin – he wants to mark Charles, fracture and shatter him until he's ground to dust under his feet.

It's not a kiss so much as punishment – anger manifesting itself into something physical, something he can manipulate, bend to his iron will. He pours every black, poisonous, and violent thought into it – of Charles on his knees, bloodied and broken, of Charles crumpled into a ball, too tired to scream... Energy pulses under his skin – dimly, he can hear the shriek of the chain link fence near them twisting and crumbling, but it's not important. Everything else is collateral damage to the real war.

Then Charles wraps a hand around the back of Erik's neck to hold him still, pushes forward so there's no space between them, angles his head to suckle on Erik's tongue. Fury bleeds out until only heat and want and a thousand other things Erik ( _can't_ ) won't name remain.

Charles is solid, real, moves with him in a perfect dance, meets every hungry slant of Erik's lips with his own. Erik can feel how hard he is, how hard they _both_ are, and he angles their hips for better friction, desperately wishing he had bare flesh under his hands. Charles tastes of beer and sunshine, and Erik burns for more, wants the blisters on his fingers, the scars on his soul. He wants to crawl inside Charles' skin, crawl inside that terrifying mind, and stay until he's the only thing that Charles knows, the only thing Charles feels. A small noise escapes him as the kiss softens, gradually goes from punishment to pleasure, sharp pain giving way to something even more dangerous.

"I'm not playing," Charles breathes in the miniscule space between them. Erik can feel the wild thump of Charles' heart, knows it mirrors his own.

"Is this my doing or yours?" he asks, in a wrecked voice he scarcely believes is his. He feels like a stranger in his own skin.

Anger flashes in Charles' eyes for a brief moment as he goes rigid in Erik's arms. "Lie to me if you must, but don't lie to yourself."

"I could never lie to you," Erik tells him starkly. He has nothing left except this – his honesty is all he has to give. "I wouldn't know how."

Charles' hands slide slowly to Erik's chest, then he pushes so there's a sliver of space between them. Erik wants nothing more than to pin him back in place. It would be so easy...

"Erik..." Charles' lips are enticingly bruised and red. Erik savors the rush of triumph.

 _I did that_ , he thinks. _I did that to you. I marked you just as surely as you've marked me._

"No." He shakes his head once, sharply. "Don't." He forces himself to take the next, critical step back. He's better than this. He _will_ be better than this. _Homo superior_ in all things.

"I can't..." He stops, unsure of what to say next.

Charles just nods like he knows. (He probably does, Erik thinks.) "When you can, I'll be here," he says, softly, and cups Erik's cheek, runs his thumb across the hard line of Erik's jaw, then drops it to his side.

Erik knows it's meant to be reassuring. But he can't help feeling like he's been trapped in place by nothing more than Charles' voice, his touch. The coin in his pocket vibrates slightly against his thigh, its heaviness a sharp reminder of his true purpose.

"You stay here, see about Peter. I'll meet you back in Washington." He can't spend another day, another night, around Charles. Not now. Not when he knows another artless gesture on Charles' part would pull Erik right back to him, like a magnet he can't control. But, the next time, he knows there will be no quarter given, no surrender or hope for escape. Not for either of them.

Charles makes a move as if to touch Erik again, but stops short. "Promise me." It's a plea wrapped in velvet, and the vulnerability in it tears into Erik with razor-sharp claws. He wonders how long it's been since Charles has had to _ask_ for anything.

"I promise I'll be there." He can't give more than that. He won't.

But when he steps back, turns the corner, ( _runs_ ) walks away, every step that takes him further from Charles' side feels like the hardest thing he'll ever do.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in July of 2011 for kaydeefalls and for zarah5, who both wanted Erik and Charles meeting a young, angry John Lennon.
> 
> All of the love and tequila EVER to Jo for her insightful betas, and for putting up with my epic freak-outs over writing The Beatles.


End file.
